“One hundred t’ousand plunks,” murmured Spike, gazing lovingly at them. “I says to meself, ‘De boss ain’t got no time to be gettin’ after dem himself. He’s too busy dese days wit jollyin’ along de swells. So it’s up to me,’ I says, ‘ ’cos de boss’ll be tickled to deat’, all right, all right, if we can git away wit dem.’ So I⁠—”

Jimmy gave tongue with an energy which amazed his faithful follower. The nightmare horror of the situation had affected him much as a sudden blow in the parts about the waistcoat might have done. But now, as Spike would have said, he caught up with his breath. The smirk faded slowly from the other’s face as he listened. Not even in the Bowery, full as it was of candid friends, had he listened to such a trenchant summing-up of his mental and moral deficiencies.

“Boss!” he protested.

“That’s just a sketchy outline,” said Jimmy, pausing for breath. “I can’t do you justice impromptu like this. You’re too vast and overwhelming.”

“But, boss, what’s eatin’ you? Ain’t youse tickled?”

“Tickled!” Jimmy sawed the air. “Tickled! You lunatic! Can’t you see what you’ve done?”

“I’ve got dem,” said Spike, whose mind was not readily receptive of new ideas. It seemed to him that Jimmy missed the main point.

“Didn’t I tell you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take those things the other day?”

Spike’s face cleared. As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the point.

“Why, say, boss, yes⁠—sure. But dose was little dinky t’ings. Of course, youse wouldn’t stand for swipin’ chickenfeed like dem. But dese is different. Dese di’monds is boids. It’s one hundred thousand plunks fer dese.”

“Spike!” said Jimmy, with painful calm.

“Huh?”

“Will you listen for a moment?”

“Sure.”

“I know it’s practically hopeless. To get an idea into your head one wants a proper outfit⁠—drills, blasting powder, and so on. But there’s just a chance, perhaps, if I talk slowly. Has it occurred to you, Spike⁠—my bonny, blue-eyed Spike⁠—that every other man, more or less, in this stately home of England is a detective who has probably received instructions to watch you like a lynx? Do you imagine that your blameless past is a sufficient safeguard? I suppose you think that these detectives will say to themselves, ‘Now, whom shall we suspect? We must leave out Spike Mullins, of course, because he naturally wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. It can’t be dear old Spike who’s got the stuff.’ ”

“But, boss,” interposed Spike brightly. “I ain’t! Dat’s right⁠—I ain’t got it. Youse has!”

Jimmy looked at him with reluctant admiration. After all, there was a breezy delirium about Spike’s methods of thought which was rather stimulating when you got used to it. The worst of it was that it did not fit in with practical, everyday life. Under different conditions⁠—say, during convivial evenings at Colney Hatch⁠—he could imagine the Bowery boy being a charming companion. How pleasantly, for instance, such remarks as that last would while away the monotony of a padded cell!

“But, laddie,” he said, with steely affection, “listen once more. Reflect! Ponder! Does it not seep into your consciousness that we are, as it were, subtly connected in this house in the minds of certain bad persons? Are we not imagined by Mr. McEachern, for instance, to be working hand in hand like brothers? Do you fancy that Mr. McEachern, chatting with his tame sleuthhound over their cigars, will have been reticent on this point? I think not. How do you propose to baffle that gentlemanly sleuth, Spike, who, I may mention once again, has rarely moved more than two yards away from me since his arrival?”

An involuntary chuckle escaped Spike.

“Sure, boss, dat’s all right!”

“All right, is it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all right?”

“Why, say, boss, dose sleuts is out of business.” A merry grin split his face. “It’s funny, boss! Gee, it’s got a circus skinned! Listen! Deyse bin an’ arrest each other.”

Jimmy moodily revised his former view. Even in Colney Hatch this sort of thing would be coldly received. Genius must ever walk alone. Spike would have to get along without any hope of meeting a kindred spirit, a fellow being in tune with his brain processes.

“Dat’s right,” chuckled Spike. “Leastways, it ain’t.”

“No, no,” said Jimmy soothingly. “I quite understand.”

“It’s dis way, boss. One of dem has bin an’ arrest de odder mug. Dey had a scrap, each t’inking de odder guy was after de jools, an’ not knowin’ dey was bote sleuts, an’ now one of dem’s bin an’ taken de odder off, an’ ”⁠—there were tears of innocent joy in his eyes⁠—“an’ locked him into de coal cellar.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

Spike giggled helplessly.

“Listen, boss! It’s dis way. Gee, it beat de band. When it’s all dark, ’cos of de storm comin’ on, I’m in de dressin’ room chasin’ around for de jool-box, and just as I gets a line on it⁠—gee!⁠—I hears a footstep coming down de passage, very soft, straight for de door. Was I to de bad? Dat’s right. I says to meself, ‘Here’s one of de sleut guys what’s bin and got wise to me, an’ he’s comin’ in to put de grip on me,’ so I gets up quick, an’ I hides behind a coitain. Dere’s a coitain at de side of de room. Dere’s dude suits an t’ings hangin’ behind it. I chases meself in dere, and stands waitin’ for de sleut to come in, ’cos den, you see, I’m goin’ to try an’ get busy before he can see who I am⁠—it’s pretty dark ’cos of de storm⁠—an’ jolt him one on de point of de jaw, an’ den, while he’s down an’ out, chase meself fer de soivants’ hall.”

“Yes?” said Jimmy.

“Well, dis guy, he gets to de door and opens it, and I’m just gettin’ ready for one sudden boist of speed when dere jumps out from de room on de odder side de passage⁠—you know de room⁠—anodder guy, an’ gets de rapid strangleholt on de foist mug. Say, wouldn’t dat make youse glad you hadn’t gone to de circus? Honest, it was better dan Coney Island.”

“Go on. What happened then?”

“Day falls to scrappin’ good and hard. Dey couldn’t see me, an’ I couldn’t see dem, but I could hear dem bumpin’ about and sluggin’ each odder to beat de band. And by and by one of de mugs puts de odder mug to de bad, so dat he goes down and takes de count; and den I hears a click. And I know what dat is. It’s one of de gazebos has put de irons on de odder gazebo.”

“Call them A and B,” suggested Jimmy.

“Den I hears him⁠—de foist mug⁠—strike a light, ’cos it’s dark dere ’cos of de storm, an’ den he says, ‘Got youse, have I?’ he says. ‘I’ve had my eye on you, t’inkin’ youse was up to somet’ing of dis kind. I’ve bin watchin’ youse!’ I knew de voice. It’s dat mug what calls himself Sir Tummas’s vally. And de odder⁠—”

Jimmy burst into a roar of laughter.

“Don’t, Spike! This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you mean to tell me that it is my bright, brainy, persevering friend Galer who has been handcuffed and locked in the coal cellar?”

“Sure, dat’s right,” he said.

“It’s a judgment,” said Jimmy delightedly⁠—“that’s what it is. No man has a right to be such a consummate ass as Galer. It isn’t decent.”

There had been moments when McEachern’s faithful employee had filled Jimmy with an odd sort of fury, a kind of hurt pride, almost to the extent of making him wish that he really could have been the desperado McEachern fancied him. Never in his life before had he sat still under a challenge, and this espionage had been one. Behind the clumsy watcher he had seen always the self-satisfied figure of McEachern. If there had been anything subtle about the man from Dodson’s he could have forgiven him; but there was not. Years of practice had left Spike with a sort of sixth sense as regarded representatives of the law. He could pierce the most cunning disguise. But in the case of Galer even Jimmy could detect the detective.

“Go on,” he said.

Spike proceeded.

“Well, de odder mug, de one down and out on de floor wit de irons on⁠—”

“Galer, in fact,” said Jimmy. “Handsome, dashing Galer!”

“Sure. Well, he’s too busy catchin’ up wit his breat’ to shoot it back swift, but after he’s bin doin’ de deep-breathin’ stunt for a while he says, ‘You mutt,’ he says, ‘youse is to de bad. You’re made a break, you have. Dat’s right. Surest t’ing you know.’ He puts it different, but dat’s what he means. ‘I’m a sleut,’ he says. ‘Take dese t’ings off!’⁠—meanin’ de irons. Does de odder mug, de vally gazebo, give him de glad eye? Not so’s you could notice it. He gives him de merry ha-ha. He says dat dat’s de woist tale dat’s ever bin handed to him. ‘Tell it to Sweeney!’ he says. ‘I knows youse. You woims yourself into de house as a guest, when youse is really after de loidy’s jools.’ At dese crool woids de odder mug, Galer, gits hot under de collar. ‘I’m a sure ’nough sleut,’ he says. ‘I blows into dis house at de special request of Mr. McEachern, de American gent.’ De odder mug hands him de lemon again. ‘Tell it to de King of Denmark,’ he says. ‘Dis cops de limit. Youse has enough gall for ten strong men,’ he says. ‘Show me to Mr. McEachern,’ says Galer. ‘He’ll⁠—crouch,’ is dat it?”

“Vouch?” suggested Jimmy. “Meaning give the glad hand to.”

“Dat’s right⁠—vouch. I wondered what he meant at de time. ‘He’ll vouch for me,’ he says. Dat puts him all right, he t’inks; but no, he’s still in Dutch, ’cos de vally mug says, ‘Nix on dat! I ain’t goin’ to chase around de house wit youse, lookin’ for Mr. McEachern. It’s youse for de coal-cellar, me man, an’ we’ll see what youse has to say when I makes me report to Sir Tummas.’ ‘Well, dat’s to de good,’ says Galer. ‘Tell Sir Tummas. I’ll explain to him.’ ‘Not me!’ says de vally. ‘Sir Tummas has a hard evening’s woik before him, jollyin’ along de swells what’s comin’ to see dis stoige-piece dey’re actin’. I ain’t goin’ to worry him till he’s good and ready. To de coal-cellar for yours! G’wan!’ and off dey goes! And I gets busy again, swipes de jools, and chases meself here.”

“Have you ever heard of poetic justice, Spike?” he asked. “This is it. But in this hour of mirth and good will we must not forget⁠—”

Spike interrupted.

Beaming with honest pleasure at the enthusiastic reception of his narrative, he proceeded to point out the morals that were to be deduced therefrom.

“So youse see, boss,” he said, “it’s all to de merry. When dey rubbers for de jools and finds dem gone, dey’ll t’ink dis Galer guy swiped dem. Dey won’t t’ink of us.”

Jimmy looked at him gravely.

“Of course,” said he. “What a reasoner you are, Spike! Galer was just opening the door from the outside, by your account, when the valet-man sprang at him. Naturally they’ll think that he took the jewels, especially as they won’t find them on him. A man who can open a locked safe through a closed door is just the sort of fellow who would be able to get rid of the swag neatly while rolling about the floor with the valet. His not having the jewels will make the case all the blacker against him. And what will make them still more certain that he is the thief is that he really is a detective. Spike, you ought to be in some sort of a home, you know.”

The Bowery boy looked disturbed.

“I didn’t t’ink of dat, boss,” he admitted.

“Of course not. One can’t think of everything. Now, if you will just hand me those diamonds, I will put them back where they belong.”

“Put dem back, boss!”

“What else would you propose? I’d get you to do it, only I don’t think putting things back is much in your line.”

Spike handed over the jewels. The boss was the boss, and what he said went. But his demeanour was tragic, telling eloquently of hopes blighted.

Jimmy took the necklace with something of a thrill. He was a connoisseur of jewels, and a fine gem affected him much as a fine picture affects the artistic. He ran the diamonds through his fingers, then scrutinized them again, more closely this time.

Spike watched him with a slight return of hope. It seemed to him that the boss was wavering. Perhaps, now that he had actually handled the jewels, he would find it impossible to give them up. To Spike a diamond necklace of cunning workmanship was merely the equivalent of so many “plunks”; but he knew that there were men, otherwise sane, who valued a jewel for its own sake.

“It’s a boid of a necklace, boss,” he murmured encouragingly.

“It is,” said Jimmy. “In its way I’ve never seen anything much better. Sir Thomas will be glad to have it back.”

“Den you’re going to put it back, boss?”

“I am,” said Jimmy. “I’ll do it just before the theatricals; there should be a chance then. There’s one good thing⁠—this afternoon’s affair will have cleared the air of sleuthhounds a little.”